Chapter Five

After three hours creeping down the mountain, Luke stopped the car on the side of the blessedly straight, beautifully flat, thankfully paved road. Thank God. Safe at sea level again. He leaned his head against the steering wheel, willing his heart to slow, his breath to deepen, and his stomach to settle. Twenty minutes later, the sweat had dried on his forehead, but his belly still clenched, refusing to release its last knot, the one that had nothing to do with the drive.

Stefan. How could he prostitute his talent like this? Luke would have given his left nut to possess a fraction of that gift, yet Stefan squandered it on fraud, the lies so plausible in his mouth that he must have had plenty of practice. Jesus, he’d always been so honest. Transparent. When they’d been together, Luke had had to bar Stefan from the weekly conservatory poker games because it played such hell with the grocery budget.

He checked his cell phone. Still no reception. He had a few choice words for Mystery Client, most of them beginning with the letter F, but he wanted the satisfaction of delivering them in person.

He threw the car back in gear and compensated for his snail’s pace down the hill by speeding all the way into town. Cell service didn’t return until he pulled into the crappy motel’s parking lot.

He shot a text at Mystery Client. We meet. Tomorrow. No more bullshit.

He expected M.C.’s usual immediate response, but got nothing. Not then. Not during his mediocre take-out enchilada dinner. Not during the three hours he spent surfing the hotel’s six TV channels while he trolled the art gossip websites on his smartphone, praying he wouldn’t find a mention of a lost Arcoletti for sale.

The damn incoming text alert didn’t ping until the ass-crack of dawn. If Luke had actually been asleep, the terse 10:30 and accompanying map link would have pissed him the hell off. Instead, it added another layer of dark to the black mood hovering over his head like the ever-present Oregon clouds. By the time he drove ten miles up the coast to a too-cute-for-words beachfront development, he was surprised lightning didn’t shoot out his ears.

Marooned in a sea of post-modern bungalows, M.C.’s turreted gray Victorian looked vaguely startled, like a hen that had unexpectedly hatched a brood of gerbils. Luke stalked up the cracked sidewalk to the heavy oak door and vented some steam by banging on the tarnished brass lion’s-head knocker.

The door creaked open. An elderly man with a shock of wavy white hair and a head turtled forward on rounded shoulders peered up at Luke from shrewd brown eyes. He leaned heavily on an ebony cane, but Luke believed firmly in the Americans with Disabilities Act. Equal anger for all.

“What’s with the secret agent bullshit?”

The old man harrumphed. “Your presentation could use work, Morganstern.”

“So I’ve been told.” Luke cocked one eyebrow, holding out his hand. “Yours sucks, too.”

M.C. chuckled. “So I’ve been told.” His grip was firm, his hand dry and knobbly. “William Franklin.” He gestured Luke into the house.

Luke crossed the slate-tiled entry and halted in a double-wide archway. He’d expected to see default cramped Victorian clutter, but the first floor clearly had been renovated for someone with mobility issues, something Luke could appreciate. A year after his recovery, his walker and cane long abandoned, his condo was still spare and open. Franklin’s color scheme, a wash of muted sea tones, wouldn’t have been out of place in Sarasota, either. Against the gray Oregon clouds and drizzle? Overcompensating.

Franklin saw Luke’s raised eyebrows. “Don’t blame me. My granddaughter’s a decorator.”

Luke shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers to prevent them from curling into fists. “When you hired me, were you aware of my previous association with Stefan Cobbe?”

Franklin settled himself in a peach brocade wingback chair. “Who?”

Luke’s belly tightened and his breath sped up. “You sent me up that godforsaken mountain to bust him and you don’t even know his fricking name?”

Franklin flapped a hand, unfazed by Luke’s temper. “I’ve suspected something fishy since July. Wasn’t sure until that fake painting showed up at the gallery last month.”

Luke stopped pacing the pastel Aubusson and shot Franklin a hard glance. “If you knew all about the fake, why hire me? Why not inform the police directly?”

“Got my reasons. Your friend admit to painting that picture?”

“He didn’t deny it. Exactly. He claims he can’t remember.” Luke scowled, the wound of Stefan’s ridiculous evasion still fresh. “He swears he never heard of Arcoletti.”

Franklin leaned back in his chair, smiling as if he’d snagged the Pietà on eBay. “Ah.”

Luke barreled ahead. “North Coast Gallery’s displaying it as an original Arcoletti, but Boardman knows where it came from. I take it he’s not particular about the provenance of his stock.”

“Bah. Thomas Boardman. That fool. He’s changing the name. Arcoletti Galleries.” He drew out the syllables.

“Based on one fake painting? A little presumptuous, isn’t it?”

“Thinks he’s entitled. He’s Arcoletti’s great-nephew. Sole remaining member of the family. Suppose he’d be Arcoletti’s heir if Arcoletti’d left much of anything behind other than that studio up on the hill.” Franklin planted his cane and glared at Luke from under the thicket of his eyebrows, jaw working as if he were chewing the cud. “So. Tell me about Jeremiah Arcoletti.”

After a week of pain-in-the-ass hide-and-seek skullduggery, this guy wanted his credentials now? Screw that. Franklin wasn’t the only one who could dole out information in irritating little chunks and Luke was in the mood to annoy. He folded his arms and leaned against the mantelpiece. “He drove a Chrysler Town & Country, drank fifteen-year-old Glenlivet, and smoked Lucky Strikes.”

“Funny guy, eh? Quit looming. You’re supposed to be one of the top experts in twentieth-century American art. I want your professional opinion of him.”

“My opinion.” Luke sank down onto the sand-colored sofa, a glow warming his belly, defusing his anger. It had been so damned long since anyone had offered him professional respect. He’d forgotten how seductive it could be. “Okay, here it is. If Arcoletti hadn’t disappeared, he’d have been a major player in the American Realism school, along with Wyeth, Benton, and Hopper. Assuming he didn’t drink himself to death first and dropped the habit of pissing off the art critics.”

“He pissed off everyone, the hot-tempered, egotistical son of a bitch,” Franklin muttered.

“Wait.” Luke leaned forward. “You knew him? You can’t have been very old when he disappeared.”

“Eight, but I wasn’t blind or stupid.”

“So why ask me…” Son of a bitch. Luke’s lips twitched. In another forty years, he’d be exactly like this guy, complete with attitude and cane. “A test.”

Franklin shrugged. “Had to be sure.”

“Did I pass?”

“Could be.” Franklin poked the air with his cane. “What’d you think of the picture?”

“The one in the gallery? Pine at Sunset?”

Franklin’s mouth screwed up in disgust. “Stupid name. But go on.”

“Style, brushwork, composition. Classic Arcoletti. Perfect imitation. But I think St— I think the forger got careless. Or arrogant.” Luke pulled in a breath against a twinge of conscience, but Stefan had waived his right to loyalty when he started painting outside the lines. “There’s no mention in Arcoletti’s correspondence of anything remotely similar. Besides, anyone with any knowledge of Arcoletti would know it couldn’t be his work.”

“You sure about that?”

“Absolutely.” Luke leaned his elbows on his knees and ticked the points off on his fingers. “Too bucolic. Some guy reading under a tree? Never. Arcoletti was an urban painter. Cityscapes. Street scenes. And he was all about night moves. He never painted a sunset in his life.”

Franklin chuckled. “Smart fella. But it’s a copy of a real Arcoletti all right.” He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling. “Original’s in my attic.”

Luke’s chest tightened and he wiped his hands on his chinos. “Here? Can I—” Jesus, he sounded like an adolescent with a crush, but an original undiscovered Arcoletti? Damn. He cleared his throat. “How do you know it’s genuine?”

“I was there when Arcoletti gave it to my brother. Real name of that picture? Edward, Reading. Edward was Arcoletti’s…” The old man sniffed. Jerked his chin at Luke. “You know.”

“I do?”

He lifted a silver eyebrow. “I’d say you do.”

Huh. Geriatric gaydar. Who’d ’a thunk? “Your brother was Arcoletti’s lover?”

Franklin snorted, a dry rasp like an elderly dragon who remembered how to breathe fire but couldn’t quite light up. “Wouldn’t call it love. Not on Arcoletti’s end. Obsession, more like. Possession, if he’d had his way. Bastard was jealous as be-damned.”

“I take it you were not a fan,” Luke said, his tone dry.

Franklin’s gnarled hands flexed on the handle of his cane. “Hated him.” The scratchy voice held an unmistakable tremor. “Still do.”

Apparently, Franklin had issues. Spectacular. So did Luke—yet another way they were alike—but it was time to put this shit to bed. He stood up and pulled his retainer check out of his shirt pocket.

“As fun-tastic as this has been, it’s a non-case. No money has changed hands.” At least, none of it had gotten into Stefan’s hands or else he’d have a pair of jeans with more denim than holes. “I’ll write a letter on official Morganstern Art Investigations stationery, no charge, and tell Boardman to cease and desist or face the consequences. He removes the fake. Game over. No sale, no foul.”

Franklin stared at Luke, stretching out the silence for almost a minute. “There’s a sale.”

Luke’s breath stuttered in his chest. “Can’t be. I checked all my sources. No hint of a rumor of an Arcoletti on the market.”

“It’s anonymous. Not finalized. Two paintings from the lost collection.”

“Two?” Luke carded his hands through his hair. Stefan, goddammit. This is not what you should be doing with your life.

Franklin nodded. “With the promise of more after the exhibit.”

“How do you…?” Luke’s eyes narrowed at Franklin’s bland expression. This guy should never play poker, either. “You’re the buyer. How much?”

Franklin cocked his head and pursed his lips. After a few seconds too long, he nodded. “One point two million for the pair.”

Luke sank onto the sofa, his hands limp between his knees. “Jesus.”

“Boardman thinks I’m from out of town. Montreal. Expects me to show up next weekend to finalize the deal. View the rest of the collection before the exhibit in November.”

“How—” Luke forced his voice out past the lump in his throat. “How many?”

“Says he’s got ten pictures in his vault. Says the other three are being cleaned and reframed. He’ll have them by the exhibit on the fifteenth.”

“Why the fucking charade? Are you trying to trap Stefan?”

“Nah. Nothing to do with him.”

Heat rose in Luke’s chest and he gripped his hands together, squeezing until his knuckles whitened. It’ll have everything to do with him when he goes to jail for fraud. “You’re ready to shell out a million bucks just to nail Boardman?”

Franklin made a face as if a whiff of rotten meat had invaded his ocean-scented parlor. “Boardman. Pfui.”

“Then who are you after? There’s nobody else.”

Franklin’s eyes burned with a fanatic’s zeal. “Arcoletti.”

Luke’s jaw dropped. “Arcoletti? Newsflash. Dude’s been dead and gone for over half a century.”

“Dead, maybe. But not gone. He’s still here.”

“Here.” Luke gestured to the airy room, about as sinister as an Easter egg. “In this house?”

Franklin glared at him as if he could detect Luke’s impending laughter. “I’ve seen him. His silhouette, passing by my room on the way to Edward’s, the way he’d do when my parents were away. Every July, around the time of his disappearance, he’d show. This year, he didn’t. But this year, his studio wasn’t empty.”

“So you think he’s haunting the studio.” Luke kept his tone flat, but his stomach churned. The cloak-and-dagger bullshit, the discovery of Stefan’s downfall—all because of some septuagenarian’s delusions.

“Arcoletti had a two-track mind. His art and my brother, although art had the inside track. He wouldn’t let a little thing like death stop him.”

Luke crossed the room in two stiff strides and slapped the check on the mantel. “Here. You need this more than I do. Get a psychiatrist. Or a good detox program.”

Franklin’s eyebrows met his hairline. “Easier to believe your friend’s a forger, is it?”

This time, Luke couldn’t stop the derisive laugh. Because as stupid as it was, as crazy as it was, it was almost easier to believe in a ghost. “If Arcoletti’s been haunting you since you were eight, why would he suddenly start producing paintings from beyond the grave?”

Franklin jutted his chin, eyebrows bunched. “Use your head, boy. Arcoletti can’t paint the pictures himself. He doesn’t have hands anymore. He needs an agent. And now he’s got one.”

“If that’s the ghost of Jeremiah Arcoletti, he’s doing a damn good impression of Stefan Cobbe,” Luke muttered.

“Always right, are you?” Franklin pointed his cane at Luke’s face. “Tell me this. How’d your friend forge a painting nobody outside my family knew existed? That nobody but me has seen since 1945?”

Luke shook his head. “There’s bound to be a rational explanation. Always is.” He shoved aside the memory of his inexplicable, near-miraculous rescue from death on a dark Italian mountain. “An old newspaper article. Family photos. Maybe your decorator granddaughter needed a tchotchke to park over someone’s fireplace.”

“Told you. No one’s seen it but me for nearly seventy years.”

“Sorry, but that woo-woo shit is not worth my time.”

“Heh. Big talk. But you’re shooting blanks.” Franklin drummed his fingers on the head of his cane. He leaned forward and smiled, his wrinkles a chevron on his cheeks. “Hernandez.”

Luke flinched, shoulders hunching, his hands rising as if he could ward off the memory of his Waterloo. One look at the desperation in Hernandez’s face, at the hollow-eyed fear of his children, and Luke had allowed his ethics to drift into a gray area rivaling the clouds outside Franklin’s picture window. Were a handful of fake pottery shards worth condemning a man to prison, his children to virtual slavery or starvation? It was a damn sight different than exposing a million dollar scam at an auction house. He hadn’t been able to do it.

“There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Bet the curator of that museum in Bogotá didn’t think so.”

“Not so much. No.” And Hernandez had gone down anyway, taking Luke’s reputation along with him.

“By my way of thinking, you don’t have much to lose. Stick with the job and I’ll throw in a fifty percent bonus. Commend you to all six museums I support.”

Jesus. A chance to live down the Hernandez debacle. To get back in the game for real. Luke clenched his sweaty palms and licked his dry lips. The bonus alone would give him the capital to be selective about his next job and pull himself out of his current professional hell-hole. But if the price was facing Stefan again, shoving him deeper into the cesspool he’d made of his life? “Not worth it.”

Franklin’s onyx eyes glittered, pinning Luke like an insect on a pastel board. “What if Morganstern Art Investigations could announce the unveiling of Arcoletti’s last canvas? Would that be worth a trip up the hill?”

“I…” Luke’s heart pounded in his ears. A chance to cop an undiscovered Arcoletti. Nobody had done that. Ever. He could rebuild his name overnight with the announcement. That insidious inner voice whispered that the possibility of proving Stefan innocent was the greater temptation. Did it matter? Screw it. He’d decide later. “Sure,” he croaked.

“Good.” Franklin nodded, his face relaxing into the smile of a jovial rattlesnake. “Text me your updates. Not too early, though. I’m an old man. I need my rest.” He laid his cane across his knees. “And remember, Morganstern. Just because you don’t believe in something? Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”